love me (hate me)
by hel lokidottir
Summary: So, yes, what we have is 'not right.' It is destructive, unholy and fucked up. code:empress!eve, lunaticpsyker!add (feat. probs toxic relationship, author is not sure how to see this as) drabble-ish


—

 **a/n: april 22, 2017**

—

He kisses her, hot and unkind, his teeth sinking into her lips. His hands tangle themselves into her hair, deftly undoing the unsightly pins from her hair. The unnatural metal pisses him off, and he growls when he catches two more of the silver fasteners than what was usually used for her braids in between his fingers. Her crown glows at the floor, knocked from her head when he pulled her harshly, and he firmly decides that the only thing that should ever touch her skull is _that._

When she pushes him back, graceful hands scratching his chest, she glares. It's an adorable sight, and he laughs in reply, the sound echoing through the halls. "You did not have to befoul it," she tells him, a finger pointed towards the glinting strands of white now flittering about messily.

"Even if it 'befouled' your perfection?" he bites back, his mouth contorting into a cold grin. The caress of his palm on her cheek isn't as cool as his expression, however, as it leaves warm trails on her flesh. Goosebumps rise on her shoulders, and he marvels at it. How is it that even after all these years, she still surprises him?

There is a pause, before she shoves him off her. Her dress, glittering ivory and gold, brushes against her legs in graceful swings, and he finds his mouth growing dry at the short glimpse of the skin above her knees.

"If mocking my hair is the only result that could be derived from this experiment of yours, then I will have to withdraw," she says, and he's torn between pointing out that this is not the first time they've ever done anything like this and choking her to death for even thinking of threatening him with such a warning.

He decides on neither of the choices, rising to stand up next to her instead. His collar is left open, rumpled, and he thinks about buttoning it up. It's getting quite chilly in the dark corridor. He shrugs before doing the first button. _Might as well,_ he resigns.

Her eyes are on him, he knows, calculating yet confused. "What are you doing?" she asks. Her voice is small, and he glances down at her with raised eyebrows.

"Making myself look presentable," he murmurs, smoothing the pristine white cloth of any wrinkles. "You should too," he continues, sparing one last look at her, before turning away.

It's not like he hasn't seen her naked before—the late night observations had him memorizing all her hollows, angles and about every inch of her, after all—but, she is still a queen, and a queen should be able to fix herself in complete privacy. It's the only thing she had ever asked him for, after all.

He snorts at the memory of petty squabbles and arguments that only ends with her slapping him just to make her get what she wants—quite forceful, but equally effective. It hurt, sure, but it's very … _fulfilling_ to see her composure break from something so trivial like a small disagreement.

Then again, it always starts with Elsword, and that _brat_ is not trivial to her. They're lovers, after all, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Ha! _Lovers._

"Add," she calls, and he instantly turns around from the sound of his name on her lips. Nothing's changed. She hasn't moved from her spot. He narrows his gaze.

"I thought I told you to fix up," he says through his gritted teeth. He's confused, questions on the tip of his tongue, but he's prideful, so he brushes his inquiries away.

Her eyelids flutter, before she shakes her head. No? Oh, this is unprecedented, but, at least, she finally has his attention. "Does," she starts, and he bores all his focus to her, "Does this relationship between us … not bother you?"

"What?"

"I have heard that what we have is not right for two mere allies, and that only two humans with a very intimate attachment could—"

"So, you think we're doing this because of some kind of affection we have for one another, is that it?" he cuts her off, and he cackles. "That's … That's hilarious!" _So_ fucking _comedic_.

"It had just occurred to me that it might have been the case—"

"Did you forget that what we do is just a compromise? That the only thing I've ever wanted from you is your Codes, and all these things—dissecting, observing, tasting, doing, touching—is solely for research? You are just a subject, a _thing_. I am just another solution for you, because you know I could help you resurrect your goddamn race back, and you had promised me your secrets if I do."

His smile is chilling, but it is meaningless.

"So, yes, what we have is 'not right.' It is destructive, unholy and **fucked up**."

Her stare is empty, but it is always like that anyway.

"… Yes, yes, you're right. I apologize for bringing this up," she says, and he knows that's the end of another conversation that might have meant something, buried once more until later on provoked by rage and wondering. He looks away again and waits as she braids her hair and puts on her crown, and he stills when she brushes her fingers against his arm.

"I am going," is what she tells him before he hears the soft tapping of her shoes on cold cement.

He calls her, "Eve", and she responds with a pause. "Have fun on your date with the brat."

She leaves after that.

Love? The concept is not one he is familiar with, and he would rather have it that way. It will just become another problem he would have to deal with, and he cannot afford to have another one.

He hates Eve anyway, and he is positive that she hates him too. Love is not welcome where two of them are concerned.

Then again, isn't it said that love and hate are just two sides of the same coin?

—

 **a/n: feedback and constructive criticism is very much appreciated**


End file.
